


The Letter and the Spirit

by vexbatch



Category: The Flash (TV 2014), White Collar
Genre: Agent AU, Alternate Universe - Fusion, Coldflashwave, Established Relationship, Gen, It's gonna be a wild ride, M/M, Multi, New Relationship, coldflash - Freeform, coldwave, mccoldflash
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-09-07
Updated: 2016-10-20
Packaged: 2018-08-13 13:39:19
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 11,148
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7978678
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vexbatch/pseuds/vexbatch
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When the trail of an elusive criminal stops cold, FBI agent Leonard Snart teams up with an unlikely partner to catch him: the imprisoned Barry Allen.</p><p>*A White Collar-Flash fusion with Leonard Snart as Peter Burke and Barry Allen as Neal Caffrey. General plot taken from the pilot episode of White Collar.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Hello from an airport! I’m heading out on vacation at the moment, but first! I’ll post the first teaser of my fic for the Coldflash Big Bang! I originally signed up for a little bang [5k], but it’s already over 15k, so we’ll see how long this goes!
> 
> At the moment I’ve got one more chapter queued to post, four in beta, and some great momentum thanks to my beta, @bloodmooninspace . I’ll be doing my best to post every Wednesday. I might actually make a whole series of these, turning White Collar into McColdFlash, but let’s just get the pilot done for now and see how it goes ☺

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Barry Allen's great escape.

Rubbing his jaw, Barry Allen looked into the mirror at his fresh shave. He grinned, enjoying the sight of his skinny face again, before turning back to his bed. The remains of his beard lay scattered on the cabinet propping up his mirror, as Barry tugged the guard uniform from underneath the mattress, shoving it into his jumpsuit. He left his cell, slouching and expressionless, following the others to the cafeteria until the guards turned away to open another door. Slipping away, Barry made a beeline for the Staff Only door at the end of the hall, which would be empty since all the guards were ushering the inmates to breakfast.

Latching the main door behind him, Barry turned into the bathroom in the guard’s break room, closing that door behind him as well. It was a sad, handicap accessible single-stall, lit by only a single fluorescent tube. He began stripping off his orange jumpsuit, unbuttoning the front and peeling it off his shoulders before sitting down to jerk the pant legs off. Tossing it aside, Barry hopped back up and began shimmying into the guard pants, buttoning up the collared shirt, and sloppily tucking it all in.

Barry was typically of the opinion that wrinkling clothing was a waste, not only of the time spent ironing and laundering, but also the care with which he chose outfits. But a) his own clothes were _much_ nicer than these 70% polyester, starched nightmares and b) the overly-aggressive, bottom-of-the-barrel “guards” the New York government hired for the metahuman wards were never that particular about their own appearance.

Having a few moments to kill before the next stage of the plan was in place, Barry went back into the sorry excuse for a break room. He leaned back on a small table, idly twirling the black king as he stared down at the chess board. As a child, he’d played with his court appointed therapist, Harrison Wells, but hadn’t really met his intellectual match among his fellow inmates. One of the guards liked to play with him occasionally, and they would continue one game over several days.

A bell rang, causing Barry’s head to jerk up, his hand releasing the king back onto the table with a soft thud. The shift bell. He quirked a little smile, then rose and walked as authoritatively as his slight frame would allow, leaving the forgotten chess piece behind him, slowly rolling on the table until it hit a white knight...

Normally on cons, Barry became the distraction with his good looks and clumsy hands, or he was moving too fast to be seen. Unfortunately, inside the prison walls, he didn’t have the luxury to hide behind the strut Joe West had always toted out to scare a skittish mark into compliance. The imitation worked too; not well enough for his foster father’s standards, but enough for the fool-hearted guards. They were too focused on their “dangerous” inmates to notice a strange guard making a beeline for gen pop.

To be fair, some of the inmates here _were_ dangerous. The old man Griffin Grey, who looked so small and feeble, could actually punch straight through concrete walls. He’d been using his “abilities” to rob banks, killing any witnesses along the way. The fact that he had been locked up with the likes of Grey galled Barry, but even the best lawyers [stolen] money could buy were hard-pressed to find a good deal for a metahuman in New York City.

Barry swiped the card he had lifted and restriped, pushed through the last gate before getting caught up in the awkwardness of another guard opening the door for him. He tried for a smile, and the guard gave a typical, early-morning grimace in response, before heading down the hallway Barry had just exited, into the bowels of the complex. He let out a breath and located the nearest security camera as the door behind him closed with a _thump_.

He smirked up at it, giving a jaunty wave before blurring out of sight. The grey streak cleared, allowing the camera an unobstructed view at its usual wall, which loudly proclaimed ‘METAHUMAN WARD: BEWARE CONTAINMENT FIELD’.

The notorious speedster Barry Allen was loose on the streets again.


	2. Opening the Vault

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Agent Leonard Snart and his team work to collect evidence against their latest art forger, code-name Thorn.

“Fuck,” Len muttered. He kept pacing the hall outside the vault littered with FBI agents. They were waiting for their safecracker, eager to rush in and analyze whatever Thorn, the notorious con artist and forger Eddie Thawne, had left behind.

“Drop three.” The call burst through the quiet hallway, causing some of the newer agents to begin fidgeting anew, though Len had told them off only ten minutes before. Well, it _was_ going to be a big break in the largest case some of them had ever been on. Who was he to ruin their fun?

Agent Leonard Snart, white collar division, best damn agent the FBI couldn’t afford to promote, that’s who.

“Drop two,” was met with titters and whispered excitement.

And he would be damned if the new agent’s glee ruined his concentration. “Shut up,” he snapped, scaring the newest into silence with his gruff monotone alone. Roy Bivolo grinned and nudged him as Len turned away to frown at the back of the technician working with the tumblers.

The tech grunted a moment, before announcing “drop four.” He sat back, extracting his listening device from around his turban, and shrugging his FBI jacket back over his ‘Proud to be a Sikh’ shirt. “All pins down,” he called. “Preparing to open.”

Len nodded to himself, then began reciting absentmindedly “three, two, four; three, two, four; three two, four.”

Gripping the handle, the tech depressed a circular latch to allow the deposit box to open. As he twisted the latch, Len started forward, shouting “wait!”

The young man looked over his shoulder, through the doorway to Agent Snart, even as his hand continued through the treacherous motion of opening the rigged box. An explosion rocked through the floor as the safe room filled with smoke, dust, and pieces of the eviscerated evidence.

“Chatar!” Len bolted into the smoke, emerging moments later holding the coughing tech. “Are you okay?”

The young man nodded, moving away to stand on his own. “What happened?”

Len shook his head. “I said wait, you didn’t wait!” He looked over at Roy who was shaking his head. Len knew it wasn’t really Chatar’s fault; the timing was off. He hadn’t realized the implications fast enough, but he needed to push his anger out. He let out a frustrated grunt. “Ten thousand man hours, we were _this close_ to catching Thorn and you blow up my evidence!” He knew none of the lesser agents would call him on his misplaced blame, but he had thought _finally_ he was going to have a break from this damn thief. The chase was only supposed to go on for so long, and this was _weeks_ outside his comfort zone.

Roy caught his arm, a harsh look in his eye. Fortunately, he changed the topic away from Len’s own incompetence. “How did you know it was going to do that?”

Rolling his eyes, Len snapped. “Get out your phones. Three, two, four. What does that spell?”

A handful of heads bowed as agents shuffled to pull their phones out of their pockets. Typically, Roy’s was the first head back up. “Oh. FBI.”

“Yeah, _oh_ ,” Len snapped, beginning to brush the dust off his sleeves.

Chatar looked up from where he had been coughing into a bottle of water, handed to him by another agent. “Apparently he knew we were coming…”

“Ya think so, Copernicus?” Mentally wincing at himself, Len slapped the tech’s shoulder in what he thought of as a good-natured way. The man’s knees buckled and a nearby agent had to prevent him from falling over, but he probably got the message. Either that or Roy would go over later to make sure Chatar knew that Len didn’t hate him, and had actually requested him for the op. Len looked down at his hand, about to move it away when he saw what was trapped underneath. “Anyone know what this is?” He held up a small, glittering fiber.

Turning a slow circle, hand above his head holding the fiber, he looked out at the blank faces of over 30 government agents, and felt the anger begin to surge again. “Anybody? Nobody knows what it is. Great,” he huffed, then spit “how many of you went to Harvard?” He instantly regretted it as several hands went up around the room. Len turned, muttering “of course, of _course,_ they raised their fucking hands…”

A floof of hair appeared between the very distinctive haircuts of the prototypical, Harvard-trained zombies Len was surrounded by, so he made his way towards his probie, Shawna Baez. “Apparently our boy has a sense of humor,” he began before Shawna’s sharp look cut him off. “What?”

Her face hardened further, from concrete to obsidian, before she informed him, “Barry Allen escaped.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Four more chapters in beta, and I'm thinking maybe ten overall? We'll see.


	3. Following the Scent

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Len is dragged onto a new case, the escape of Barry Allen.

Shawna turned back down the hall, motioning for Len to follow as the agents behind him began calling in for a clean-up crew and bagging the dust as evidence. He glanced behind, looking for confirmation from Roy before leaving the scene in his hands. Roy was engrossed in conversation with Chatar (probably covering for Len's earlier outburst), but glanced up after a moment and waved him away. 

Len grinned, turning back to Shawna and lengthening his stride to catch up. They pushed through the glass doors of the bank in unison, turning to duck under the caution tape and towards where Shawna had parked. She handed him a file once they were clear of the small crowd of onlookers. 

“What's this?” Looking down, Len saw the seal of the U.S. Marshals, an eagle in front of a sheriff's star taking up space where the shield and balancing scales normally sat. 

She unlocked the car, answering “U.S. Marshals are requesting your help” over the roof before sliding into the driver's seat.

“My help?” His face, briefly contorted by a frown of confusion, quickly twisted into one of discomfort as he seated himself in the Kia Picanto. “You know, Iris always leaves this seat  _ way _ too far forward for any sensible human.”

She snorted and shook her head as he pushed the chair back. “It’s not her fault you’re born of giants. Besides, if you wanted to not have to adjust your seat, maybe you should consider driving  _ yourself _ to the scenes instead of having me or Bivolo do it.” She cocked her head challengingly at him, but there was a smile in her eyes, and he just laughed. She gave him a moment, then got back to business. “Director Thompson asked for you personally.”

Len blinked. “Me?” He thought back through his chase and capture of Barry for any “laws” he may have...bent. “Why would he want me?”

Shawna leveled her best incredulous stare at him, before turning the car on and pulling into traffic. “Probably because you’re the only one who ever caught him. And at least Iris doesn’t leave half-empty coffee cups in my car.” 

She glanced back over to wink at him, and Len chuckled. “Touché”

One relatively short car ride later, Len left Shawna with the sharp woman checking in visitors to see if she could get a little more background on this particular facility, before heading behind the bars himself. 

Once past the gruff guard manning the metal detector and collecting his keys, Len spotted the men in suits waiting for him at the end of the hall. One seemed like your typical sit-on-your-ass-and-do-paperwork warden, but the other had a sharp look about him. Not just the crisp suit or the military-grade haircut, but the way he held himself and scanned the area, hypervigilant and tracking every camera. 

The stout, sharpened man saw him and moved towards him while reaching out a hand. “Agent Snart. I'm Thompson, U.S. Marshals.” They shook hands just as the balding man caught up with his companion, looking a little lost. The director, ignoring him, continued, “Appreciate the help. You were the case agent?”

“Yes, I was,” Len confirmed. He wondered briefly why the director of the Marshals himself had bothered to show up. Was it his mistrust of the warden, a general distaste of the situation, or did the man just want to get out in the field once in awhile? He should've done more research in the car; he'd look it over after dinner. 

Blinking, Len focused back on the director, just as he was saying, “So you'll agree this is an unusual situation.”

Len nodded. “Why would Barry run with three months left on a four year sentence?”

Thompson shot him a strange glance, as though that was a point already addressed. “Well, that's what we're wondering.” He finally turned to acknowledge the man beside him, shorter and a little dumbstruck. “This is Warden Halley,” then gestured at Len, “Agent Snart, F.B.I.”

Giving his best scowl to the man, Len extended a hand as he chided, “so you're the guy who dropped the ball.”

The handshake was overly firm, typical of the men in power trying to prove they belonged there without doing any of the actual work. Thompson's dismissive gaze towards the warden probably wasn't helping, nor was the judgement quietly rolling off Len.

“You of all people should know what Allen's capable of,” Haskley shot back, quickly dropping his clammy hand back to his side.

“As should you, yet you let him walk out the front door.” Len glowered down at the slightly shorter man, before realizing this pissing contest wouldn’t get them anywhere. “Let’s hope it doesn’t take another three years of my life to catch him this time.” He nodded down the hallway in front of them. “We should get going; Barry already has a four hour head start.”

The director smirked back at Len before leading the way into the guts of the prison. Len knew, as the other men should, that it didn't matter how much of a head start Barry had; if he didn't want to be found, he was gone. 

“So, Allen came out of the E-block staff room dressed as a guard,” Len confirmed aloud as they passed through the door to the meta-human ward. “Where did he get the uniform?”

“Uniform supply company on the internet,” Thompson called back.

Len cocked his head. “He used a credit card?”

Thompson threw a scowl over his shoulder at the warden, who was still trooping behind Len. Haskley cleared his throat, offering reluctantly “he, uh, used my wife's American Express.”

Len succeeded in stifling the laugh threatening to burst forth, both at the man's stupidity and at Barry's cockiness. Damn if he wasn't good at what he did. 

Thompson shook his head, noting “we're tracking the number in case he uses it again.”

“He won't.” Len enjoyed the bob of the man's head ahead of him as he agreed, as though he agreed with Len implicitly. As though Len was the most senior officer and was confirming something already obvious. Maybe his rep was spreading, outside the Bureau even...

They continued in silence down the long, grey halls, coming up to Barry's cell. Fortunately, Len had arrived right as the inmates were getting their time in the yard, so the halls were blessedly quiet, missing both the jeers of the inmates and the looming presence of the guards. 

It was obvious once they reached the correct cell; it only made sense that Barry Allen would have paintings on the walls, his own recreations of Monet and Renoir, and books scattered across the floor. Len stepped carefully over the threshold, glancing around himself as he went. “How’d he get the key card for the gate?” His eyes tracked the tally marks on the wall opposite the small bed. Keeping track of days until he was out, even as he was plotting an escape?

Thompson, leaning just inside the door frame, answered the audible question. “We think he restriped a utility card using the record head on that,” gesturing towards the cassette player. Len glanced down at it, innocuously perched on a tiny table in the concrete box.

Len stepped forward, brushing his fingertips over the rough plastic before depressing the 'eject’ button. 

“You could've given him a CD player.” Len cut a sharp glance at them, then focused back down at the cassette tape, careful to only move his neck lest he knock into the table in such cramped quarters. The table was already jamming into his thigh as he reached down for the tape. He picked it up, twirled it in his fingers. Glancing down to make sure there was no clutter in the way, Len sat down on the overused, underserviced springs of the prison's bed.  They groaned as he flipped the tape onto the sheets, reaching down to snag a book by his feet. 

“We beefed up security at the airport,” Thompson mentioned. “In case he tries to get out that way.”

Len glanced up from the book, a history of the Houston Astros, throwing a disinterested look around the cell again. “We're not going to catch Allen with roadblocks and wanted posters.” He stood up again, letting the curious book fall back onto the bed as the director nodded to himself and backed out into the hallway. 

The man's lack of resistance to Len's ideas and opinions was a bit baffling, something he kept trying to shrug off. The warden was tough, overcooked and defensive, where the director was puzzlingly pliable on every count Len brought up. He  _ did _ know more about Barry Allen than almost anyone else on the planet; maybe that was all it was. 

Len tried to stand again, running his knees into the table on his way up. “Have to keep these cells so damn small, do ya,” he grumbled, rubbing the injured spots before rising again.

The warden leaned in against the bars, still standing outside the cell. “Cut down on individual square footage, maximize prisoner numbers. And it gives them less room to hang themselves.”

“Yeah, can't imagine why they'd want to do  _ that _ ,” Len muttered. He must not have been as quiet as intended, as that comment received a snort from Director Thompson.

Len reached down, plucking a razor from on top of a cabinet in the corner. It was an odd perch, where Barry most likely would've sat to paint the landscapes on his walls. 

“He shaved his beard just before he escaped,” the warden added, turning away as he saw Len move towards the cell door.

Len shrugged past the annoying man, following the crisp path of Thompson before him. “Barry doesn't have a beard,” he muttered to himself, glad he didn't have to work with this imbecile on a daily basis.

They strode down another three hallways before ushering Len into the tiniest monitoring room he’d ever seen. It was more of a high-tech broom closet than a security measure, but there was a relatively competent tech who had already cued up a video from Barry’s cell. 

Leaning over Len’s shoulder, the warden informed him, “the inmates are photographed each morning as they exit their cells.”

Len glared over his shoulder, annoyed at his physical presence, the obviousness of his statement, and the inaccuracy. If they were photographed, the Barry Allen moving in prison orange in front of them wouldn’t be  _ moving _ . 

He focused back on the video, depicting a scraggly Barry slouching out of his cell. There was hair all over his face, even more covering his forehead and reaching almost to his shoulders. Len reached out, tapping the screen. “I hardly recognize him.”

Director Thompson shifted from his perch against the doorway. “Yeah,” he began dryly, “I think that’s the point.”

Len shot a look over his shoulder, holding back a cutting remark before turning back to the screen.”This morning?”

Still hunched over the keyboard, minimizing their presence, the technician answered, “yes.”

“Run the series back.”

Days began flashing back, the camera stationary as Barry moved around his cell, entered and left, listened to music, read, painted…

Eventually, the beard began regressing, hair shortening back into his scalp, until it looked as though he’d gone just a day without shaving, a shadow beginning to hide his jawbone. 

“Stop.” Len leaned in closer to the screen, taking in the flick of Barry’s eyes up to the camera. He studied the carefully tousled hair, noting how Barry had stopped grooming himself to cover for the careless beard to come. The give-away five o’clock shadow, a look Len had never seen on him before. Barry was too careful for that. “He stopped shaving. What happened that day?”

After considerably longer than was necessary, the warden came back from his office with a tome entitled ‘Visitor’s Log’. Len glanced up from where he was perched on the only other chair in the room as they tracked Barry’s movements throughout that day. 

He took the book, flipping to the appropriate day, then scanning down the line. “There.” He paused, pointing at one name, before flipping the book towards the warden and director. 

Thompson leaned over, picking it up and reading out “ Bílá ... and then a name I can’t pronounce. You know her?”

“ Bílá Kanárkově.” Staring into Thompson’s eyes, he saw he wasn’t going to be questioned or challenged, so Len decided to finally let them in on what they should already know. This is what they got for underestimating Barry Allen, for not studying their inmates. “It’s not a name, it’s a moniker. In Czech it means ‘white canary’. That’s Sara Lance, Barry Allen 's beau.” 

Len turned back to the technician, who had already glanced over, caught on, and had cued up the footage from the visitor’s room. “Smart tech you’ve got here,” Len commented, eyeing the quiet, perceptive  person next to them. “Ever considered working for the FBI?”

They afforded him a considering glance. “You take people without formal training or gendered pronouns?”

“Trust me,” Len grinned, “I know some pretty useless people with some fancy degrees to back them up. You seem perfect for my team, and anyone who can't respect pronouns hasn't got what it takes to crack a con anyway. I'm Agent Snart.”

They flashed a brief smile his way, all bared teeth and challenges, but shook the offered hand. “Jessie Wen.” 

Len let go, reaching into his suit to pull out one of his cards, the ones Shawna had insisted he make for when he recruited more strays like herself. Handing it over, he smiled. “Call my office sometime.”

They took it, inspected it for a moment, then tucked it away, turning to un-pause the recording.

The warden hissed to Thompson, “can he do that?”

There was a chuckle from the doorway, as the director replied, “he can pretty much do what he wants, with the results he gets.” Apparently his reputation  _ was  _ getting around. 

Len tucked away his self-satisfied smile, focusing instead on the blonde woman seated on the other side of the glass from Barry. “Video only?” He shook his head to himself before pulling a pen and pad of paper out of a pocket.

“Yeah,” the warden responded, getting visibly nervous as the tech snorted. 

Thompson had continued flipping pages in the visitor's log, and piped up, “She comes back every week, like clockwork.”

Len leaned closer to the screen, intent on the surprisingly crisp video. “She's nervous,” he commented, scribbling furiously.

On the small monitor, Sara Lance stood, glancing down at Barry briefly as she shrugged her coat back on. Barry put his hand up to the glass, fingers spread and face taut with pain in the reflection. She said something terse, her eyes hard as she turned away through the door, ignoring Barry standing, knocking his chair over, calling after her. 

The director turned to the warden, who was still shifting from foot to foot. “How soon can we get a lip reader in here?” 

Len waved him off. “I’ll save you the trouble,” he muttered, shoving the pad he had been writing on towards the man. “Quantico has some useful courses, if you bother to take them. That’s the full transcript, but essentially, she’s running. To protect herself from a Joe...” Trailing off, Len became engrossed again in the tape. Sara had left the room, but Barry was doing something…

For a moment, he shimmered out of sight, but the blur solidified back into Barry almost instantly and the slight man doubled over in pain. Two guards came rushing into view, and Len turned away from the screen, not eager to watch his punishment, or be transported back into his own. “She come back next week? Or write?”

“Nope,” Thompson shook his head. “She never contacted him again after that, far as we can tell.”

Nodding to himself absentmindedly, Len stood. “Okay. Now we find Sara.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Less polished than I wanted, but there's more of it. Also, they'll finally meet in the next chapter, for those of you waiting for that ;)
> 
> Thanks to bloodmooninspace for beta-ing
> 
> One more chapter ready to post, two in beta, and more after that I need to sort out. Seriously, who let me have a posting schedule, this was a terrible plan XD


	4. Meeting the Man

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Len and Barry finally meet ;)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rougher than I'd like, but here it is! There might end up being 18 chapters in all? idk, we'll see

Barry is sitting alone on the floor of the large room on the far side of the warehouse. The lights on the cop cars flash through the window, splashing red and blue in a frenzy over Barry's lowered head and the empty Bordeaux bottle in his hands. The lights were mostly for show, but the technology inside them could pack a real punch, spreading a meta-human containment field around and inside the warehouse. 

Len moved down the hallway until he came up to Barry, within speaking distance.“I see Sara moved out,” he commented gently. 

Barry sighed, looking as though the next blow might break him, before looking up. Len could see his eyes were rimmed with a tinge of red before the speedster dropped his gaze back to the bottle he was holding. He slowly began to rotate the bottle, getting lost in its murky, empty depths. 

Len drew a little closer to him, still standing, respecting Barry's space by about eight feet. “She leave you a message in that?”

He put the bottle down carefully, folding his hands between his legs. “The bottle is the message,” he explained quietly.

Len changed the topic, giving him distance from the loss. “It's been a while.”

This startled a chuckle out of Barry, who loosened a little. His eyes finally left the neck of the bottle, and he glanced over, approximately at Len's knees. “Yeah, a few years,” he smiled to himself, “give or take.”

“You carrying?” Len tried to make it sound offhand, casual, but given the knife-like glance he got from Barry, he had failed utterly. 

“You know I don't like guns,” he spat, disdain for guns or Len's forgetfulness, he couldn't tell. 

'It doesn't matter,’ Len told himself, 'I have to ask. It's my job. He knows that. Right?’

“They asked me, what makes a guy like you pull a boneheaded escape with four months to go?” 'You' could've run,’ he didn't say. 'Why did you let me catch you again’ is written in Len's eyes, but Barry just looks back down at the bottle, reaching out to softly caress it. 

“Missed her by two days,” he murmured, staring deep into the tinted glass.

Len shifted his weight, leaning on his left leg. He wanted to distract Barry, show him how much he could do, nevermind he was a criminal, a fugitive, again. “One month,” Len interrupted Barry's thoughts. “And for a supermax no less.” Len allowed himself a chuckle. “Damn impressive.”

Barry looked up, a smile tugging on the corners of his mouth. His hand went lax around the bottle, sliding it down once more to the floor. Len's radio chooses that exact moment to give out an ungainly squawk, jolting him back into his job. He couldn't just stand here admiring the slender man in front of him. No, he needed to  _ catch _ him, detain him, put him away for another four years...

“Containment field in effect,” came the call from their tech, and Barry visibly tensed up. There was a twinge there, Barry suppressing the urge to speed away. Forcing himself to sit there, still against the invisible barrier.

Len looked away, glancing down at the floor to cover his guilty expression. Covering  _ that _ movement by calling “subject identified and unarmed” into the radio. He took no pleasure in making Barry feel small and unsafe, surrounded and hunted. 

It might be his job, but so far as Len could tell (and the courts could prove), the speedster had only ever injured fat cats bank accounts. And, okay, a bit of the niche economy for art. Even so, it never hurt real people. Not like beating and berating your children, not like using your job to cover theft and get out of jail sooner. Not like making people believe they’re worthless for  _ years  _ after they cut you out because abuse is a bitch. Not like his father.

Barry's gaze was still on him, not quite searching, but asking. “We surrounded?”

He couldn't find his words yet, so Len settled for nodding. 

“How many?”

Allowing himself a brief chuckle, Len pretended to think, cocking his head to the side. “Including my agents, and the Marshalls? Oh, all of them.” 

Barry just nodded solemnly, staring back into the depths of the empty bottle before him. 

“They're gonna give you another four years for this,” Len sighed, staring out at the intrusive police lights, wishing he could do something more for this forger.

“I don't care,” Barry murmured to the bottle. 

Len studied the dejected criminals face, surprised to see the man actually meant it. Was chasing after this girl really so important to him that he honestly didn't care about going back to prison? He hadn't even caught up to her, hadn't gotten a chance to talk to her since their brief goodbye in prison. Barry didn't seem that unstable, to go so far for some woman who had dumped him  _ with prejudice. _ He was passionate though….and loyal.

He must have made an unconscious noise at his own thoughts, because Barry looked up from the bottle, taking in Len standing before him in his poorly tailored suit. As Barry looked over the buttons, the too-small pockets, a chuckle began in his chest, working it’s way up until he had to duck his head in mirth.

“What?” Barry glanced up to see Len looking offended and a little...concerned.

Flashing his bright smile, Barry pushed himself up off the ground, giving Len his full attention for the first time since he walked in the room. “That’s the same suit you were wearing the last time you arrested me.”

Len glanced down at his suit, tugging at the lapels to readjust and reassure himself of its presence. “Classics never go out of style.”

Barry just smiled back, a little noncommittal noise in the back of his throat, before reaching forward. Len startled backwards, and Barry held up his hand. Len stilled, and Barry reached forward again, smoothing down the shoulder before plucking a fiber off the jacket. 

Len tried, he did, not to lean into the touch. Not to show how much he craved, not just the warmth of Barry’s fingers, but the dexterity and deft way he could take Len apart so easily. He resisted humming as he reveled in the memory of the hand on his shoulder that had now moved...oh, that now was not on his shoulder. He opened his eyes, not realizing he had closed them to smile and sway at the contact, to see Barry staring intently at his hand.

Barry seemed not to see Len’s reaction, getting distracted by what he had picked up. Squinting, he queried, “you know what this is?”

Len chuckled. “No idea. Got it from a case I was  _ supposed  _ to be working before they yanked me off to find you.” There was a warmth in his voice on 'you’ that he couldn't seem to erase, causing Barry to look up at him and smirk before glancing back down at the fiber in his hand. 

“Getting close to him?”

“Don't know,” Len shook his head. “he's good. Maybe as good as you.” And yeah, okay, maybe he  _ was  _ flirting a little bit, but if it got Barry to bite…

Barry gave a small snort of derision, looking up at Len with carefully quirked eyebrows. “Sure,” he replied sarcastically. Then a gleam came into his eye, as he asked “If I tell you what this is, will you agree to meet me back in prison in one week?”

He looked down, enjoying the furrow of Barry’s brow as his eyebrows cocked up with the question. The constant hint of a smile in the corner of his mouth, the intensity of his gaze...

“Just a meeting,” the speedster interjected, and Len took a moment to realize ' _ Oh, _ he thinks I'm considering not meeting with him,  _ idiot, _ why  _ wouldn't _ I-’

Shouting came down the hallway, some hyped up, ex-military grunts clearing the hall. Their tumult distracted the two, both shooting glances towards the only exit.

“Yes,” Len heard himself murmur before being caught in Barry's searching gaze.

There was a moment of surprise in that face before the smugness returned. “It's the security fiber for the new Canadian hundred dollar bill.”

The 'backup’ (overpaid pitbulls of people) arrived at that moment, fanning out to secure the room, half of them breaking off to surround and cuff Barry. As he bent halfway over from the thugs at his back, he held Len's gaze. “One week.”


	5. Unfolding the Case

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Len makes waves. Len and Barry have a conversation. Mick and Len have a conversation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SO, A LOT HAPPENS. It's a long chapter. I was going to split it up more...but then I didn't :D There'll be another chapter next week Wednesday!
> 
> Kudos to BloodMoonInSpace who's beta-ing this mess for me! All mistakes are my own <333
> 
> Bonus points for anyone who can spot the super-subtle Greek mythology allusion.

Shawna was waiting for Len in the lobby of the FBI building, tapping her fingers on a case file as he walked up. He glanced around, surreptitiously taking a sip of his coffee as he noted the clump of agents whispering and nodding to him from their corner. As he got closer, Shawna gave a meaningful nod towards the doors, then fell in step.

Len leaned in conspiratorially, muttering “What’s got the belt and suspender boys all riled up?”

“You.” Shawna's smile was brilliant, some weird mix of pride and the gleam of a case cracked open in her eye.

Len, still confused, asked, “Me? What’d I do?”

“Allen was right.” Len stopped dead in his tracks, giving her a look to ask if she was joking. She continued, still grinning. “That stuff from the bank vault? Security fibers for the new Canadian hundred.” She handed him the file, expertly juggling it and the coffee he handed her.

He flipped the folder open, scanning down the page that confirmed the analysis. On the side opposite, a strongly worded letter from the Canadian government was tacked. Len let out a breath. “I’ll be damned,” he whispered. He might like Barry Allen, but he wasn’t sure he could trust Barry’s information until this moment. But the criminal had given him a good tip. If he could continue to deliver…

Shawna cut back in, interrupting his daydreams of catching criminals. “Apparently the formulation’s still classified.” She took a long sip of his coffee, giving him a snarky look as he opened his mouth to object, before continuing. “The Canadian Secret Service are very curious to know how you figured it out.”

Len glanced back over his shoulder at the huddle of suits. He managed to hide his grin just about until he turned back to Shawna, who was matching his, dimple out and eyes crinkling. “This should be fun,” he chuckled.

“You may have started an international incident,” she shot back as they headed out to the Canadian embassy.

 

_[Three Hours Later- Iron Heights Prison]_

Bullied into taking a break from paperwork by Shawna, Len decided to keep his promise to see Barry and headed down to the prison.

He strode into the room where Barry was already seated, back to the door, chained to the table. The restraints were a new design; it was typical chain connected to the top of the table, but instead of ending in manacles, Barry’s wrists were engulfed in a flat, white substance, almost like metal. As was natural for one of the most metahuman resilient countries in the world, the U.S.A. spent most of their prison resources on the latest and greatest in metahuman containment. The separate ward with its containment field inlaid into the walls, the high-tech manacles, even the anklets had been upgraded. All in the name of keeping the “normal” population safe.

Len moved around the table, sending a scathing glance at the high tech handcuffs. He let out a breath, shaking his head as he moved to the far wall, getting his thoughts back in place. The vault, the fibers. “How’d you know?”

Sitting behind the table, Barry was all soft edges. Even in his prison orange, his sweet smile was enough to weaken Len’s knees. Damn con man.

“Come on, Len, it's what I do.” His grin turned smug and his eyes started to sparkle with mischief. “How’d the Canadians take it?”

“Not well,” Len chuckled, leaning on the lone window across from the speedster. “So. I agreed to a meeting.” He gestured vaguely. “We’re meeting.”

“I hear you’re chasing Thorn,” Barry offered bluntly.

Len cocked his head, questioning look in his eye. “How do you know about that?”

A smirk was waiting for him at the table. “You know my life, you think I don't know yours?” Something softer entered Barry’s eyes. “Did you get the birthday cards?”

Len chuckled, trying to ignore the twinge he got Barry sending cards out of kindness, not just as some joke. “Nice touch,” was all he could manage in response.

“You've been after Thorn a long time,” Barry commented, the casual way he leaned back into his chair undercut by a sharpness in his voice. “Almost as long as you were after me.”

“What, you afraid someone is as good as the great Barry Allen?”

“Nah, just worried someone else won't treasure the pleasure of your chase like I will.” Barry gave a wink, before leaning forward. He abandoned his nebulously comfortable air in lieu of a more serious tone, chain clinking as the metal slack hit against itself. “I'll help you catch him.”

Len gave up on standing imposingly in front of the window, instead moving forward to steady himself on the cold table. Connected himself to the hard surface and cruel edges, it felt more like a part of himself than the suit he donned every day. Not that he would let Barry know that. He sat down, back high in the chair, continuing to exude his complete control of the room and the situation.

Barry leaned further over, sorting out the files to arrange them in front of Len. “You can get me out of here. There’s case law, precedent.” He pointed out a particular file, something about a previous case of a white collar agent taking on a criminal informant, their CI being stuck to their side for the remainder of the sentence. “I can be released into your custody…” Barry began to explain.

“Nice,” Len interrupted, “this is very nice. But you’re right, I do know you, and I know the second you’re out you’ll flash,” wiggled his fingers to make the point, “and speed off after Sara.”

He stared up with those pleading green eyes, reassuring “Len, I’m not going to run.” It was a nice show, but didn’t leave enough to let Len believe the sincerity; he had to put it down to the man’s long history as a con-man. Len leveled his best skeptical look across the table, and Barry continued, pushing forward a new page. “GPS tracking anklet, complete with miniaturized metahuman containment field. The new ones are tamper proof, never been skipped on.”

“There’s always a first time,” Len cautioned, almost apologetically, watching as Barry reached out to toss some other file on top. In his hurry, he flashed, for just a moment, before his hand resolidified, mouth tightening into a grimace. Len closed his eyes briefly, then looked down at the new case file opened in front of him.

“Think about it,” Barry appealed, voice still filled with hope.

Or was that just a trick, and his affection for the small speedster was getting the better of him. Didn’t matter. Adding a CI would just bring more scrutiny, on his methods, his life, maybe even his husband...

“Sorry, Barry.” He pushed back from the table, Barry’s soft gaze following him up and around, fluidly sliding around till he was sitting sideways in the chair as the chains on his cuffs clinked, straining the end of their reach. Len gazed down at him, before reaching to pat him on the shoulder, almost reminiscent of the time they met in an abandoned warehouse, a whole host of government-sent agents about to descend. “Nice try,” he murmured, and meant it, before he turned to leave.

He could feel Barry’s eyes on his back, but didn’t risk glancing back.

 

_[Three Months Later- Iron Heights Prison]_

A guard thumped down the hallway, boots loud on the concrete in the quiet cellblock. “Lights out,” echoed from the speakers embedded in the hall ceilings. Barry glanced up at the man who had stopped in front of his cell door.

“Barry, gotta turn that off.” The large man gestured at the single, naked bulb hanging in the cell, dropped straight down by its cord from the ceiling.

“You got it, Bobby,” Barry conceded as he hopped off his bed, reaching up to the cord. “Is it midnight yet?”

“Yeah,” the guard, Bobby, confirmed as the light flashed out. “It’s midnight.”

As Bobby moved down the hall again, Barry glanced at the wall his bed was pushed against. He picked up his grease pencil, using the faint, orange light from the hall to see where he left off on his wall of tally marks. He had to kneel on the bed; the wall to his left was covered, but the marks in front of him started at the ceiling and ran about halfway down. He leaned forward, squinted, then carefully added one mark, before sitting back on his haunches.

Barry looked up, up to the top of the wall so all he could see were the faint black marks against the darkness of his cell, overwhelmed by the sheer number. He looked around, but didn’t see his art or books or careful disorganization. All he could see was the other wall, covered in marks, so faint against the dark, but entrapping him so completely. An endless number of days spent here, in this single cell, and an endless number ahead of him. Trapped, trapped, alone, unable to flash, unable to save himself, abandoned…

He collapsed on his bed, curling up on his side and shaking. No, no, he was fine, he was safe. It was just prison. He’d gone this far, he could...breathe...just breathe...in...out…

 

_[One Hour Later- The Snart-Rory Residence]_

The heavy creaking of their stairs announced Mick’s presence, giving Len enough warning to not jump in surprise as his husband’s hand caressed his shoulder. “Coming to bed tonight?” Micks hand started massaging just a bit, the other coming up to match, and Len leaned forward just a bit. Mick’s hands started wandering lower and lower, until he was massaging just above the base of Len’s spine. He let out a breath, but then shook his head.

Mick backed off gently, taking a seat beside him as Len picked up a birthday card from the pile of papers in front of him. “What’s wrong?”

Huffing out another dejected breath, Len responded, “nothing.”

“Uh-huh, very convincing.” He leaned over his husband’s arm, taking the birthday card he was staring at so forlornly, a snowflake with a hand-drawn speech bubble saying ‘Happy Birthday!’ It had been a generic ‘happy holidays’ card, carefully doctored by one discerning criminal. “Ah, Barry Allen.” Mick set the card back down on the heaps of files taking over their dining room table. “You know, I’ve been competing with him for _years_ , and you still won’t even ask him out.”

“He’d be out today,” Len muttered, looking back down in the pile of old case files, mixed in with little notes Allen had left for him over the years.

“You’re considering his offer?”

Len just shrugged, continuing his dejected stare at his pile of correspondence.

“Well, of course you are, or you’d be in bed with me.” Mick glanced back down at the birthday cards, mixed with FBI files that Len _definitely_ hadn’t taken from work, fingers skimming the photos of Barry Allen wandering airports or the streets of Paris or shops in Shanghai…”You think he can help you find Thorn?”

“Barry’s smart,” Len admitted. “You know how much I like smart.”

A grin creeps back onto Mick’s face. “He as smart as those Ivy League co-eds they throw at you?”

Len turned to look at Mick, a smile flickering at the corners of his mouth. “He’s almost as brilliant as the man I married.”

“Ooh, good answer.” He leaned forward to snatch a quick kiss, just a brief brushing of lips to send a little tingle back down Len’s spine, before getting back to business. “So what’s the problem?”

Len looked back into the eyes of the man he married for a moment, so bright, more flames than sunlight. He shook his head, clearing his thoughts away from the bedroom and back to Barry Allen. “This isn’t the way it’s supposed to go. You get caught, you do your time. There’s more to this, more than lost love. What side angle is he playing at…”

Interrupting just as Len started to go nonverbal again, Mick began picking apart this analysis. “So you suggest he escapes a maximum security prison, knowing _you’d_ catch him, just so he could trick you into letting him out again?”

“It’s a working theory,” Len sighed, before glancing back up to catch Mick’s laughing gaze.

“Yeah,” he chuckled, “keep working.” Len managed to get a smirk out, but couldn’t tear his thoughts away from the speedster for too long. Reigning his attention back in, Mick placed a large hand on his arm. “Is it so crazy that a man would do that for a woman he loves? That you would do that for me? Or Lisa? Or,” and the dangerous flash came back into his eyes, the mischievous nature that Len had fallen in love with, just as much as the sensible logic, “that he would be interested in having as much contact with a _certain agent_ as possible?”

A flush crawled up from Len’s collar, as his eyes widened at his husband. “Are you...are you suggesting Barry Allen... _likes_ me?”

Mick’s grin only widened at Len’s shock. “I mean, if it were me? I’d definitely take four more years in prison for the chance at five minutes in the same room as you.” He leaned forward, taking advantage of Len’s loose jaw to steal a kiss, sealed with the lightest flash of tongue inside the other man’s mouth. “But,” and he stood then, tugging Len’s arm until the man was forced to at least spin with him, “that’s just me.”

Len grinned, enjoying the view of Mick leaving the room, before finally standing and heading upstairs himself.


	6. Leaving the Prison

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Barry gets out and sees his new living situation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey! so I accidentally theatred really hard, so sorry if I'm not responding to comments; I'll get to you soon, I promise!
> 
> Out of curiosity, would anyone be interested in a directors cut of this fic? my lovely beta @bloodmooninspace mentioned the idea, so I wanted to gauge interest
> 
> OH ALSO, in the third part of this chapter, the suits Barry is trying on are very reminiscent of Earth 2 Barry, and the mysterious woman is June, taken directly from White Collar. I'll put in reference photos when I get to an actual computer ^^;

The imposing grey wall of a door slid back, disappearing back into the concrete wall that surrounded the prison. Behind, Barry Allen was revealed, flanked by two guards before jauntily stepping out into the sunlight. There was a cocky grin on his face, forcing Len to repress a matching smile as he leaned against the hood of his truck.

“Show me,” Len commanded once Barry was close enough to hear.

Barry rolled his eyes, smirk still as wide as the Atlantic as he hitched up his pant leg, uncovering the tracking-containment anklet. It was the same strange, white material of the containment cuffs Len had seen in the interrogation room, but shaped like a normal anklet.

Nodding to himself, Len confirmed “You understand how this arrangement works?”

“I’m being released into the custody of the FBI,” Barry recited, “under your supervision, and let this” he lifted the offending leg as the pant dropped back in place, “chafe my leg. Anything else?”

“Yes,” Len added. “If you run, and I catch you a third time? You’ll be back here for good.”

Barry nodded, smirk slipping down into a solemn look.

“However tempted you are to look for Sara...:” Len looked down at his charge, infusing his stare with the commanding look that took his probie down a peg when he needed. “Don't.”

Barry just looked up at him impassively, squinting a little in the sunlight. “I told you: the bottle meant goodbye.”

Not trusting Barry to take this seriously enough, Len added, “then leave it at that.” He turned, going around the side of the truck and opening the driver’s side door. “This situation is temporary. If we catch Thorn?” Len glanced across at Barry, who already had his door open but had stopped to watch Len speak. “It can become permanent.”

There was the smile again, gone in a flash as they got into the car. Len started the car and got it in gear before Barry started talking again. “So, where are we headed?”

Len gave a little chuckle before answering. “Your new home, for the time being.”

 

_[One Hour Later- Midway Motel]_

Len leaned up against the counter at the motel, hand resting on his pile of paperwork. “Room reservation, Barry Allen. My office called earlier.”

It was the kind of motel that made the cockroaches under the carpeting wonder if they really wanted to be consorting with _that_ kind of bed bug. The kind where you wondered how many STDs were transmitted by the sheets alone; where those with nowhere else to turn could find a cheap place to spend the months it took to get back on their feet, or before they stumbled back under an overpass or into a homeless shelter.

“There ya go; snake eyes.”

Len grinned even broader as Barry’s head whipped back around to the motel clerk, holding out a key connected to a piece of wood reading _Rm 11_.

Taking the outstretched key, Barry managed a weak smile and a “Thank you.”

As they turned away from the counter, Barry leaned in, whispering, “Can I talk to you for a second?”

Len nodded at the man at the front counter, picked up his stack of paperwork, and followed the tug at his elbow. Barry lead him down the hall a bit, dodging a woman waving at them invitingly and someone holding the payphone, staring into the middle distance.

“Um, Len,” Barry began, voice pitched low. “Did you see? Outside, on the window there’s a bunch of signs and one of them was a “humans first” and Len, you _know_ the anklets look different for normal criminals and are you sure I’m going to be safe here?” His voice was high and tight, and there was a visible effort in his eyes to pinch off the babble of worry there.

Looking down the hallway, Len noted the vaguely anti-metahuman fliers on the walls. Nothing that outright stated anything, but gave enough of a sense that “normal” humans were better that...yeah, maybe Barry _did_ have a valid concern, not just for the grunge of the place, but an actual concern about his safety. Dammit. He should’ve looked into this, vetted the place instead of getting distracted with getting him out, being able to pick him up…

“Alright.” Len looked back down at the criminal in his custody. Fuck. “Give me one week. I’ll find something else, something 700 a month that’s more meta-friendly. Can you do a week?”

He didn’t really have a choice, but Barry just kept his lips tightly pressed and nodded.

“Your radius,” Len gestured toward the anklet, “is two miles. Here’s your homework.” Len handed over the stack of files to the speedster, still anxious but paying attention. “See you at 7am.” He gave Barry a pat on the shoulder, then reluctantly turned out the door to go look into housing solutions.

 

_[Half an Hour Later- Deaton Thrift & Consignment] _

Barry was idly flicking through the meager offerings in the ‘tall and wide’ section of the small thrift store when he heard the bell _ding_ again. Glancing up, he saw an older woman managing to gracefully carry a bag full of garments to the front counter, placing them and her purse down. “I’ve come to donate these,” she informed the clerk.

Unzipping the bag, the clerk confirmed, “Men’s suits?”

Surreptitiously, Barry moved over to “examine” the chachkies closer to the checkout counter. The mysterious woman, very wealthy if her clothes and jewelry were any indication, gave a polite “mm-hmm” in response. Not rude, but brusque in a way that indicated she wanted to let the clerk get on with their job as quickly as possible.

The clerk pulled out a suit jacket, allowing Barry a glimpse; the suits were exquisite, something donated for the tax write-off, something initially tailored to precisely fit the owner. Barry moved closer, keeping a polite distance to make sure the woman still felt safe, and commented, “Those are fantastic.”

She turned, assessing him for a moment before returning his smile with one of her own. “They belonged to my late husband, Byron,” she replied as he stared lovingly at her pile of donations. She glanced back down herself. “He really did have a great taste in clothes.”

“May I?” He reached out a hand, and she nodded. He picked up the pants that matched the jacket the clerk was holding, carefully inspecting the tag. He read it again. Barry looked up at the woman in front of him. “This is a Devore,” he stated, reverently.

“Yes.” She smiled, then explained, “He won it from Sy himself.”

“Won it?”

“He beat him at a back door draw.” Her grin burst into laughter, brown eyes filled with mirth at the look on Barry’s face.

Barry’s eyebrows went up with incredulity, but he kept up his smile as he clarified, “Your husband played poker with Sy Devore?”

“He certainly did,” she bit back smugly. “And so did I.”

He knew his jaw had dropped at this point. “No.”

“Yes!” Laughter still lined her eyes, as he looked down to see how the pants would fit him. They followed the curve of his leg surprisingly well, and...yes, they went down far enough to cover his anklet. _Yes_.

“The guys would even let me sit in on a hand once in a while,” she continued, reaching down to twitch the pants into place as he held them up. “And I was good.” She stood back, winked at him, and they laughed.

Satisfied, Barry carefully put the pants back up on the counter, before taking the hat she offered. He did a little flip with it, something an old con friend had showed him, before sliding it onto his head.

“I'm glad to see you appreciate these. I was hoping someone would,” she turned back to the pile of clothes, picking out a black suit jacket.”I've got a whole closet of them.”

Barry took the offered coat, shrugging it on clumsily over his t-shirt. “A whole closet?”

“Mm-hmm. Well,” she corrected, “Actually it's a guest room, but I haven't used it for anything but storage for years.”

He buttoned the front of the jacket; almost as perfect a fit as the pants had been. He tucked his hands in his pockets, but froze when she said “ooh.” Had he gone too far? In her late husband's clothes no less…

She smiled reassuringly, reaching out to Pat down a wrinkle on his arm. “Byron used to wear that one whenever we went dancing.” he relaxed a hair, and her eyes glossed over, reaching back into the past. “The neighborhood was…” Catching herself, the woman smiled at him once again. “Let's say it was much nicer back then.”

“You live nearby?”

Something flashed in the older woman’s eye; a spark, a grin, a hint of mischief. She began zipping the bag of clothing back up. “Not far.”


	7. Acquiring the Speedster

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Barry moves, and Len catches a lead at the airport.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WELL THIS IS LATE, sorry about that, i died temporarily
> 
> thanks to bloodmooninspace as always for betaing, as well as letting me blatantly steal some words and flail until i got this posted. because i forgot yesterday was wednesday. woo. HAVE FUN

Len walked up to the front counter of the motel, wound tight and ready to be on the road already, tracking down their lead. The clerk glanced up as he approached. “I’m here for Barry Allen, room 11.”

The man just looked at him for a moment, before jerking to life. “Oh yeah! Nice guy.” He reached back behind him to a wall of what looked like mail slots, before sitting back with a piece of paper he handed to Len. “Left ya a note.” Job done, the man turned back to his newspaper, once again completely ignoring Len, his lobby, and the world at large in favor of some black and white ‘Aliens are Real!!’ newspaper.

Len blinked at the man for a moment, then looked down at the paper. Unfolding it, he found a scribbled note reading: 

_ Dear Len, _

_ I have moved 1.6 miles. 87 Riverside Ave. _

_XOXO_ _  
__Barry_

 

_ [Approx. 20 Minutes Later- 87 Riverside Ave] _

Staring up at the imposing figure cut by the three story manor, Len muttered, “You’ve got to be kidding me,” before reaching up and rapping on the door. He only waited a beat before a woman dressed in what was clearly a maid’s uniform opened the door. Smiling apologetically, he entered awkwardly before offering, “I think I have the wrong address…”

As the maid closed the door however, Len turned to see another woman walking confidently towards him through a living room and into the foyer. “You must be Len,” she stated, stroking the small pug she was carrying. She wore a finely tailored skirt and jacket, the kind of high-end tailoring that looked effortless but was truly, ridiculously expensive. The clothes themselves were probably from the kinds of stores where you had to ask the price, and where the cost of one of their  _ scarves _ would give him an aneurism. Yeah, this was definitely the place his speedster belonged. Speaking of which...

“I’m looking for Barry Allen,” he explained, holding up the note.

She just smiled serenely back, and nodded towards the staircase. “He’s upstairs.” The woman, older, but so graceful it was hard not to watch, turned back into the living room, apparently having more pressing concerns to deal with than strangers coming to look for criminals she was housing upstairs.

Len nodded to himself, turned to the staircase, and tried to keep his head down as much as possible as he climbed. The railings were exquisite; carefully carved wooden patterns. Mysteriously, the stairs themselves hardly seemed to squeak, though they were undoubtedly old. They were well taken care of and, woop, there was the first landing. Okay, more stairs, just keep going up. The walls were crisp, clean, lined with fine art, but not cluttered. The kind of art that would attract Barry’s attention... _ oh _ . It was starting to make sense, and not just that Barry had felt unsafe at the Midway Motel. He had also found a kindred spirit it seemed; an older woman with similar tastes to prey off of. Hmm.

He finally came to the top; the stairs had transitioned to a spiral staircase by the end, before stopping before a green door, with paneled windows. Opening the door, Len found himself on a rooftop, all carefully trimmed shrubs, candelabras, quaint patio furniture, and a view that...Well, it stole your breath as cleanly as the conman sitting reading the morning paper, drinking his coffee. 

Seeming to sense his presence, Barry lowered the paper, smiling over it at Len. “You’re early.”

Len glanced around the rooftop. If he was honest with himself, this is exactly the kind of place he’d love to be, if it wasn’t 6:30 in the morning and there wasn’t a lead at the airport. It was exactly the kind of spot you could grill out on, or just lay and watch the stars...

Barry cleared his throat, bringing Len back to their rooftop with its million dollar view of the city. “We’re chasing a lead at the airport.” Len’s gaze settled back on the man lounging in...yep, that was an honest to goodness  _ silk robe. _ He narrowed his eyes at the smug, sleep-tousled speedster. “We got a hit on Snow White.”

“Ah,” Barry set his newspaper down, carefully avoiding his plate of breakfast, “Snow White...a phrase you decoded from a suspected Thorn communique at Barcelona.” He took a sip of his coffee, batting his eyes innocently before lowering the cup to reveal an infuriating smirk. 

“You moved,” he noted. He was a little hurt all his work last night on housing was for naught, but he tried to push that aside. Funneled it all into his eyes, which he hoped were doing that thing where they bored holes into the guilty consciousness of suspects, but-

“Yeah,” Barry quipped back, “it’s nicer than the other place, don’t you think?”

Guess not. And if the look Barry’s giving him is anything to go by...is he... _ interested?  _

No. No, has to be wishful thinking. No, not  _ wishful,  _ just an honest assessment of the situation. Besides, Barry has Sara Lance. Had. Has. Doesn’t matter. Len huffed out an angry breath as Barry continued.

“I went to the thrift store, and June-”

“Lady with the dog,” Len nodded, “we met.”

Barry grinned infuriatingly at this interruption, almost as a condescending teacher at a correct answer. “-was donating her late husband's clothes. We hit it off, she had an extra guest room...” He trailed off, taking a sip of his coffee. 

Len cleared his throat to get them back on track. And because he couldn't stand watching that Adam's apple bob down that long, smooth throat any longer...he might get  _ ideas _ …

Barry put down the offending cup, revealing a huge smile and spreading his hands wide. “It’s the same price, so that shouldn’t be an issue. Still within the radius too.”

It was a dare. Len knew it was a dare. 'See,’ Barry was saying, 'you showed me the lines, and I'm toeing them.’ 

Len turned a slow circle, taking in the roof again. And god, that view. Hell, if he weren't so jealous of the rewards, Len would be a little turned on by Barry's weaseling himself around the letter of the law.“All this for seven hundred?”

Barry grinned out at the scenery as well, all rooftops, glass, and sky. “Yep. But I help out around the place,” he placated.

“Sure,” Len replied, voice dripping sarcasm, “feed the dog.”

“Yeah, and wash the Jag. Help her granddaughter with homework.”

Len quirked an eyebrow. “Tutoring?”

At that point, a woman in a long, flowing robe swept past, glancing at Len before returning Barry’s sile. “Morning, Barry.” She continued past them, sitting a ways off on a lounge chair.

Len turned back to look at Barry. “Granddaughter?”

Barry shrugged innocently. “She’s an art student,” he justified. “Thought I might be able to help with some of her homework. I  _ am  _ a bit of an art aficionado.” 

The waggling of Barry’s eyebrows almost caused Len to burst out in laughter, but he covered it with a snarl. “Unbelievable. Go,” he gestured towards the door, “get dressed.”

Barry’s smirk just got wider, but he got up and brushed past Len out the door and back downstairs. Len glanced back over at June’s granddaughter, who seemed to be completely involved in her own textbook. He took a cautious step forward, then decided to just go for it and sat at the small patio table. Taking a tentative sip of the coffee, he was rewarded with a strong dark roast, reminiscent of the badly brewed bulk coffee from the offices. But there was something else; a smooth finish that lingered over his tongue with flavors, not tannic acidic bites that over roasted beans gave in an industrial brew.

By the time Len looked up from his first sip of what was truly magical coffee, June had come upstairs and was grinning at him from across the table. If it weren’t for the art downstairs, Len would’ve sworn June and Barry had bonded over infuriating smirks alone. Attempting to break the ice, or explain himself, or  _ something _ , Len held aloft the tiny, china cup. Dwarfing it in his hands, he commented, “It’s perfect.”

June just laughed, good naturedly, with crinkles all the way around her eyes. Well, might as well get the unpleasentness over with now, while he was here to protect Barry still. 

“You know, he’s a criminal.” She just nodded, letting him continue. “And a metahuman.”

She leaned in conspiratorially. “So was Byron, my late husband.” She winked, and Len was floored. ‘Well, he found a perfect place by himself. How about that.’

 

_ [10 Minutes Later- Downstairs] _

Len glanced up at a movement in the corner of his eye, before openly staring at Barry making his way down the stairs. There was a smirk as large as the Brooklyn bridge, complimented by a jaunty hat, and a well tailored suit just a hair too large in the chest. It was slimming, a simple jacket with a slim tie, slacks that Len noted, yes,  _ did _ cover the anklet completely, before coming down to meet the slick, leather shoes. Len let his eyes trail back up, catching the laughter in Barry's eyes as he hit the bottom step.

“Like what you see?”

Laughter came bubbling up with Len's response. “Just forgot what you looked like in your classic rat pack.”

Barry grinned at that, before skipping down the last stair, spinning a small circle as he landed. “This is a Devore.” Len just laughed harder at that, which only encouraged him.

Spinning, Barry flipped the hat off and back on again, making sure it did a full rotation down his arms before settling on his head as he came to a stop. Damn, even without his super speed, the man was fast. 

“Stop with the hat.”

“Aww,” Barry winked, “I don't break a rule; I've been good! You might be the spirit of the law, but baby I'm the letter.”

Len gave another full laugh at that, before brushing past the con man towards the door. “We've got to go. To the airport. Snow White lead, remember?”

Pausing at the door, Len looked back to watch the comical dumbstruck look on Barry's face before the slight man remembered what they were there for. And there, the grin was back in place as he brushed past. “Does that make us the dwarves or the huntsmen?” Barry leapt down the front steps, then waited for Len to fall in step as they headed towards the truck.

Len smiled to himself again. “Dressed like that? Pretty sure you’re the prince.”


End file.
